Misery Road
by Draenog Glas Memorial
Summary: SCRAPPED. Sonic and other relative strangers come upon a road in Las Vegas called Misery Road, where all their sadness and ailments are understood by a man Sonic called Smirk. Used to be on the old account before I received criticism and stopped the story. Also includes a chapter never released.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Some people remember this story. It was one of my first dabbles of "serious-type" fanfiction that I was criticized for years ago (those same readers should honestly read the stuff I write now, it's way darker than this). In retrospect, however, I just don't like this story and didn't expect too much from coming out of it. I guess in a way I'm glad I stopped it when I did (even if people were incredibly rude to me and told me to "never write again" even though this story seems incredibly tame to my recent stuff).**

**I seriously improved so much after I wrote this, so it's kind of nice to see how far I've gone since then.**

He can remember it. He remembered it so clearly. The dark green walls, the people's faces, the feel of getting those injections. He remembered himself staring upwards at the ceiling, seeing the tiny sparking camera that watched him, and looking outside with the chain link windows, reminding himself of how great the sun's rays felt on him and to see a clear blue sky. Sometimes the windows would show trees becoming golden and red and the leaves leaving them behind or nothing but a clear white blanket with those trees with bare branches, sometimes having white crystal dust falling behind those windows or making it frost. He then remembered on how he had to spend Christmas there, alone, without his family or his girlfriend coming up to see him. In fact, after he got out, his girlfriend no longer spoke to him. She left him without saying a goodbye. And his heart still hurt.

He glanced outside the window to see the red desert around him, cacti springing to his eyes, with cliffs and the glinting aureate sun glaring. He didn't even remember what he came to this bus for. He felt like he had to go somewhere, to get away from his life, to have a little adventure. He thought he should travel as far from his house as he could get and live out in Las Vegas for a while. He had enough money to go out for a vacation. He was a writer, after all, and he sold many books about how to hunt demons in your home.

People looked at him conspicuously, all stares on him, and he thought he could hear their voices. He was a mind-reader too. He could read minds.

_Lunatic._

_Asshole._

_Moron._

_Freak._

_Crazed motherfucker._

But they couldn't hurt him. He heard it all before.

He also wondered how many demons he would see in Las Vegas. Probably many, since it was the city of sin, after all.

But it seemed like no one wanted to go to Las Vegas. People were beginning to be dropped off the bus, to some other cities in the desert. And then he wondered for how long he was here. He was thinking of all the different types of demons, and wondered if everyone here was a demon in disguise. But he restrained himself. More than those restraints could.

It was until he was the only one in the bus, except for the bus driver. He thought how weird it all was that no one wanted to ride to Las Vegas, especially in the summer. But maybe because it was of the summer's heat coupled with how hot it was here. Or maybe they all knew he was a demon hunter, so they left.

He sighed, and counted his money. He counted carefully, and when he was done counting, he learned he only had $213 and 43 cents. This certainly wasn't enough to go to the MGM hotel. He didn't even have a credit card.

But maybe he would get a job here. It is a big city; there are a lot of opportunities.

Including selling his organs, if he needed to.

Or prostituting himself. To gay men if he had to.

Even to people who would probably restrain him.

And he hated that, but he thought he would do it anyways. If he was paid enough, anyways.

Then the scenery stopped, as if someone paused the movie. Paused the bus. But he was still moving, and this bus driver was beginning to get out of his seat, this overall wearing mustached guy with the gaily colored Hawaiian shirt that made him laugh a little.

"What the fuck are ya laughin' about boy? Do ya have a problem with me or somethin'? Speak up!"

He was confused. He didn't remember laughing _at him_, but he looked in his eyes innocently. "Excuse me?"

"Ya laughin'. Ya laughin' at me, aren't you boy? Am I funny to you? I said, am I fuckin' funny to you boy?"

Then he remembered. His Hawaiian shirt. He was laughing about that. Apparently he didn't even know he was laughing loudly, as if he couldn't suppress his snickering.

"I just think…your Hawaiian shirt is funny, that's all. No need to get angry at me, dude."

"Ya fuckin' laughin' at me, is that it? Do I look like a fuckin' faggot to you, is that it?" he hollered. "It's fuckin' hot, that's why I wore this shirt. And look at ya, faggot, with your red spiky hair and baggy pants, it must be fuckin' hot for ya, ain't it boy?"

He also remembered that many people out in Las Vegas were like this, especially menial workers who had to work out in the blazing sun that had no mercy to beat their backs with sweltering heat. He knew he should've kept his mouth shut. He should've at least made an effort. That was probably why everyone left, with them scowling at him. He was probably muttering to himself again too! He was the stereotype crazy in this bus! He was embarrassed, he wanted to let him know that he wasn't going to do this again, he just wanted to go to Las Vegas and live out his life, whatever he had left of it.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said. "I must've acted up when I was in this bus and I apologize for that. I promise to be quiet, until we get to Las Vegas, okay? No need to get upset…"

His face was now red. He thought because of the desert's heat, but his eyes began to bulge too. "How about ya get the fuck out of the bus? I don't get paid enough for this shit, to take ya crazies to this fuckin' city. Ya just get the fuck out of my bus and try gettin' there yerself, is that fuckin' clear faggot?"

He was getting angry too. He wanted to show him how he can really fight, as he fought all these demons like him before, and drive this pocket knife he had into his heart. But when he was face to face with him, he could get a taste of reality, and he knew this wasn't the "sensible" thing to do. This man might've been just a regular man, who flew off the handle at his random laughter. And if he wanted him off the bus, there was no point to talk reason to him or fight. The best thing he could do was get off. And he walked away, stepping down as the bus driver also roared after him, "And don't think about takin' ya money back, it's mine now fucker!"

And he was left in the heat on this empty road, as the bus sped away from him. He wondered how a bus driver like him got hired, but maybe the Las Vegas standards were low.

He glanced at the street sign that blew gently in the wind, as he shivered as the sun went down: Misfortune Rd. He wondered why this road was called that, but maybe something in history happened that made it earn this name.

But this road was empty, nothing but plain desert sand all around him, and what seemed to be a bus stop seat. At least he could sit and wait for another bus to arrive here, he thought. One that didn't had someone as crazy as that guy behind the wheel.

And he knew this was the only thing he could do if he wanted to go to Las Vegas: just sit and wait for the next bus. Even if the night's chill would freeze him to this very seat.

And he sat here, shuddering as the sun began to sink completely. The night was black, black ice that would make him huddle and rub his fingers. He could see many stars, while Las Vegas' faint glow was in the distance. He thought he could see animals scurrying around here too, maybe a rabbit bouncing along, but he didn't see any headlights or cars passing by either. It was eerily silent and eerily black.

He wondered if he had to wait an hour for a bus to come here. Maybe two hours? He didn't know of the schedule. He just found a bus and was somehow determined to make it to Las Vegas to live in the big city, even if he abandoned everyone else back at Flint, back at Michigan. He somehow had this idea of going here, back at Misfortune Road, somewhere in Nevada, wherever the hell he technically was at. He didn't even left a note that he left. He thought no one gave a damn about him anymore. Ever since he was admitted at Havenwyck Hospital, no one probably wanted to know his name. Not even his parents wanted to see him and hear of what happened, even if he was admitted there for six months before he could see a real, sane face from the outside world. Other than those doctors and nurses he hated, the ones who would tell him that he had to change his life. Fuck them. He wasn't going to take the medicine that made him into a zombie, to someone who might as well be dead. He liked the sudden burst of energy and adventure he would feel, and when he took that medicine, the only thing that kept him smiling was taken away from him.

His girlfriend was gone. For good. His parents rarely talked to him. And he had to be honest with himself, using the terms his doctors used to describe him on these papers; he was "manic" and "delusional". A delusion that lasted for many days. He only had 200 dollars and he thought he was rich and wrote successful books on demon hunting. He thought he was a demon hunter. He thought everyone around him were demons and he was a mind-reader. He couldn't live in Las Vegas. It was too much for him. This kind of behavior he had would most likely get him killed out there. He finally had a sense of reality, a gulp of fresh air, and he knew this was crazy, like himself. He had to find a way he could get back, before his ass was glued to this seat because of this damn cold.

In the corner of his eye he saw two glowing orbs, two white beaming eyes that were getting closer on the road, towards him. He thought instantly of a demon, but his rationality came clear as he realized that it was a car, a car that finally drove on this road and could get him out of this godforsaken place! Maybe it wouldn't stop for him, but he knew he had no choice anyways, unless he wanted to wait for a bus that would take him back to Grand Junction in Colorado. He gave the driver a thumb up, and he prayed silently that he would stop for him.

It increasingly got slower, until it careened a little off the road and rolled down the window. God answered.

It was a little peculiar he thought when he walked to the window, talking to this stranger who decided to stop for him; the only parts of his face he could see were his eyes and nothing else. No other part of his face was discernable, not even a nose or mouth. And when the driver ushered him to get inside, he suddenly forgot the colors of his eyes, if he had any.

His car was dark. Almost darker than the night in the desert. No light flashed on when he went inside. The only light he could see was red, and it was only the end of his cigarette, as he took it in and breathed out a stream of wispy smoke before he said in a dark voice that might as well been darker than this car, "What's your name?"

This was all a bizarre and scary situation, he realized, but it was too late to get out of the car. He began to move it, towards the city of St. George. "I said, what's your name? Where do you want to go? We can't go somewhere being complete strangers, if you know what I mean."

He had to admit, he was a little nervous talking to him, and he could sense his voice shuddering a little like he was before this man turned the heat on as he said, "I'm Sonic. Sonic the Hedgehog."

"Sonic the hedgehog, eh?" he replied gruffly, his throat seeming to be full of feathers. "You look odd, with your blue fur, your queer eyes. Where are you headed to? How did you get here?"

The smoke was stinging his nose, until the man knew he had to roll down his window, but Sonic still couldn't see his face or be able to memorize the colors of his eyes. "I came from Flint, you know, in Michigan. I just went through a lot of states, a lot of days, in hotels and buses. If you could somehow find me a bus that will take me back to Grand Junction and back, I would appreciate it."

An uncanny silence passes the both of them as the city lights grew closer, his face still dark, his contours not even showing, until he asked, "Why are you here in Misfortune Road?"

"Huh?"

"I asked, why are you here in Misfortune Road? It's a simple question. Answer it."

"Geez, lighten up guy, I wanted to go to Las Vegas, but then I realized it was a bad idea."

"Why did you think it was a bad idea? Answer that too. I don't have to lighten up if I don't want to, _buddy_."

_Buddy _was said with so much irritation and sarcasm that Sonic was a little afraid, but he continued to joke around with him. "How about you smile a little bit more, eh Smirk? Turn that frown upside down!"

"What did you call me?" he asked, viperous.

"Smirk. That's what I deem you. Because you need to smile more and not take this too seriously."

There was yet more silence, before he let his cigarette fly out the window, then he looked at him, and replied casually, "Oh. I see. Back where I'm from, I have no name. So I guess that's my name. Smirk."

Smirk asked Sonic many things while he tried to find the bus stop at St. George and a good hotel near it, such as the main reason why he thought about going to Las Vegas.

"I don't know why, but one day I woke up and thought I needed to go on some kind of pilgrimage, to a place where…demons reigned, and that I needed to preach to people before the demons took hold of them and they sinned at Las Vegas. So I took all the money I had and went on many different buses and went to many hotels. I was at Des Moines, Omaha, and Denver, just thinking this would accomplish something in my life. It was all just a big delusion my mind made up, and it was until then I realized that I had to go back. I don't have that much money anyways. I've been to a few sleazy hotels, trying to get by."

"Are you fucking crazy?" Smirk spat. "I mean, really, are you schizophrenic or something? Why the fuck would you wake up one day and think all of a sudden you had to go to Las Vegas and 'slay demons' or some shit, are you really fucking crazy, something wrong with your fucking brain to go from goddamn Flint to here?"

He hated how he worded it, but he knew he was right. "Actually, yes, I am. I am schizophrenic. And bipolar."

More silence, before he remarked, "Ah hell. Do you take medicine for it or something? Did it just not work worth a damn on those days?"

"I don't take my medicine. I…don't want to be a zombie. I hate it, actually."

He nearly made the car come to a screeching halt. "And why the hell not?"

"I already told you. It makes me so boring. I have no energy and all I want to do is sleep once I take it. It's like they're trying to tranquilize me. I'd rather be crazy than…that."

He drove into the Crystal Inn parking lot, Sonic still unable to see his face even when he looked at him, even when the street lights were shining on his face.

"Well, I'd rather be tranquilized than doing the shit you're pulling. How about this blue one, I'll give you enough money to stay in some decent hotels when you're trying to get back to Flint, and you think about what you're doing for a moment. I mean, come on, it sounds like you don't have a job, and if you had one, you'd be fired by now for suddenly walking away from your city and trying to get to Las Vegas. I mean…you can't do this. Go on with life like this. It's nothing but chaos, and you have to think for once that maybe it would be fan-fucking-tastic if things were in order, if all your ducks were in a row. Your girlfriend left you, right? And your parents want nothing to do with you? Well, that's sad and all, but this is exactly the reason why. Because you can't reason with your mind, and you need to go to a doctor or something and find a medicine that works. You can't do this. You have to get a normal life. Find a job, and stay in it. Try to get your ducks in a row, the ones that are just swimming and shitting all over the place, and pick back up your life. You need to think over these things. Maybe all you need, other than this huge reality check, is for you to think about it. If you continue like this, you'll just be miserable. Did I get that message clear to you? Because if not, I won't say it again, and I'll let you out of this car and into this hotel, and you won't see my face ever again and you'll continue to live your life in this chaos and delusional madness. Understand? Do I make myself clear?"

He mulled everything over it for a moment, gazing at the white light near the hotel that was shining over them, hurting his eyes and watching the moths dancing on it like some kind of moonlit dancefloor, before he said, "Like crystal, sir. Like the name of this hotel."

"Then you take my money, get yourself in some good hotels, not that sleazy crazy shit because you have enough craziness in your life, and you find the right doctor and the right medicine when you get back. Don't, and I'll never see you again and this conversation might as well be void, is that clear?"

Never see him again? Was he going to make a trip to Flint to see him? He didn't even know where he lived! What was he talking about? Was he just as crazy as him? But he still answered, "Yes. Clear, like the hotel."

Sonic couldn't see his hands, only a dark silhouette reaching into his pocket, getting a billfold of money, and holding it to him. And when he reached out and took it, he felt nothing from his palm, and if he did, he forgot about it. Even when he opened the door and the light loomed over his seat, Smirk's face was still ambiguous, and he shut the door and watched him drive off the parking lot and back into the street, and he watched until he was so small he couldn't see him anymore.

He wondered who this man was and why he wanted to help him. He said he had no name, he gave nothing about where he came from, and he couldn't even see his face or anything about his appearance, zero zip nada. But he wasn't so bad if he trusted him enough to give him money to go to some good hotels nearly across the country and to tell him some advice.

But yet he hated medicine. It always made him something he knew he wasn't. He felt afraid of losing his identity for one he knew nothing about, and he hated that he thought about trading his life for one that was so boring.

But maybe a boring life wasn't so bad after all. Maybe after his run-in with Havenwyck he needed some peace. But yet he couldn't imagine himself to be so plastic like the people he saw on medicine. To be so plain and gray he faded into the newspapers, and no one would know his name.

He went inside in the Crystal Inn, paid for a one night stay, got his room, crashed on his bed, and thought about it all he could before drifting off to sleep, and this time he didn't hear loud banging or screaming from a rough night with a prostitute. And he couldn't believe he thought he would live his life as one just to pay to be in Las Vegas. He was right. He was crazy.

Smirk returned home, watched as the night bloomed into early morning, its colors unfurling into a deep rich fuchsia and violet as the sun came up, and he clacked on his typewriter while he smoked his cigarette.

_Sonic. Sonic the hedgehog, he calls himself._

_He looked to be about in his 20s. Or he was 19. I don't know. Hard to tell. He looks like a damn blue hedgehog, after all._

_The guy is crazy, and I don't mean "oh, he says a lot of funny things or does hilarious stuff", I mean, this guy was in a state institution. He actually traveled all the way from Flint, MI, trying to get to Las Vegas, NV. Now THAT'S fucking crazy. He just woke up one day and thought that would be where he needed to go, because of all the demons in Las Vegas or some shit. I told him to go to some good hotels (even gave him money to do that) and to get some medicine, something that would actually work with him. Because his life is in disorderly chaos. There's no rhyme or reason to it. His girlfriend dumped him, his parents want nothing to do with him, and that's kind of why. Because he thinks it's great to live in that mess he calls a life. _

_He said he got me though. He said he would do the things I told him. If not, I won't see him again. But maybe I got through to him and he will do what I said. And even though I said if he didn't, I'll see him again, back at Misfortune Road. I'll make sure he comes back by some means. It's my duty to do my part on this._

He crushed his cigarette in his ash tray, and as the last strands of smoke escaped from it, he typed:

_I have to._

_- Smirk, my new established name given by Sonic. And that is the name I will go by from now on_


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Anton-Babinski syndrome is a very rare disorder where people are blind, yet hallucinate what they see. Unfortunately I didn't do a lot of research on this disorder (and little information seem to exist for it, as it's an incredibly rare occurrence) so I should've done all I could before I wrote this chapter. This chapter had never been released before I was criticized and stopped writing it. **

He could feel his brain being smashed into many different tiny pieces, as if it was glass, and he felt it being scattered all over his head, and he thought none of his doctors would be able to fix it. Superglue it? No, they had to do something better than that. Not when this accident happened. Not when he literally felt his brain tissue being crushed, not when he felt so many of his bones break. He was in so much pain that he fainted, the fire being melted into red, orange, and yellow blobs, and maybe a few faces as they came towards him, also becoming blurry and out of focus. He was greeted by the darkness, and he felt it absorbing him as he gave out his last guttural scream that he thought might as well have been heard all over the world.

When he woke up, it could've been days, months, even years he realized, as he felt himself coming out of a coma. He could see a single rose in the darkness, its petals drifting and dripping, becoming these psychedelic colors that he thought he saw back in the movies when the characters experimented with drugs. It was flashing all these neon colors and melting, as he heard a voice whisper, "Jet? Are you okay?"

A bird with deep violet feathers, wearing a white jacket that matched the room and navy blue pants was standing over him, but he stared straightforward in the room until she jerked him under his chin to look at him. "What are you doing that for? I can see you just fine! Now I can't! What's going on?"

"I'm staring right in your eyes, Jet! And you're saying you can't see me? What's wrong with you? Are you blind?" she couldn't resist hissing at him. His eyes didn't even match her face. He continued to stare straightforward.

"No, I can still see you, Wave! You're just right over there!" He pointed to the large bird with thick gray feathers with the darkened eyes, quiet and observing what happened to their master.

"No, I'm not over there! Storm's over there! How can you see and yet still be blind?" she shouted, the hospital staff seeming to hear her as they glanced in the room.

He was thoroughly bewildered at what she claimed. He could see her, across the room, but yet she was holding his face and screaming at him that he couldn't see. And Storm wasn't here. And he saw a completely black room, much like he remembered when he became unconscious, painted with the stars. It was strange for a room to be like this, but maybe this was some kind of special hospital for special people like him. But he didn't want to think of all this right now. All he knew that after he was out for maybe days, months, or years…that he was hungry. The tube food wasn't good enough.

"Can anyone here get me something to eat? Like a cheeseburger? They serve that here, right?"

Wave hoped that he couldn't see the tears in her eyes. She knew he wouldn't be able to see her barge out of the room, yell at someone, her voice sounding like she was sobbing, to "get this fucking prick a cheeseburger", punch a wall no matter how much it hurt her hand, and break down in front of the hospital staff. But she didn't care. There was something wrong with their leader. Very wrong, and it looked like there was nothing the doctors could do about it, and that was what scared her the most. Storm tried to comfort her, but he only had the same thoughts that she had, even if his team called him an idiot. He only knew the same.

Wave left a short while later. Storm felt that he had to take her safely home, so he left, as well.

And it was funny, he thought, that he could still see Wave and Storm with him in this star-studded room, but they wouldn't respond back to him. He kept shouting their names, asking them questions, he even tried to get out of his bed to try to talk to them if he didn't realize his body was broken. He didn't even see the casts, and didn't understand why it hurt to move his body, and once again he was confounded to how deceptive this world he was in seemed to be. But he swore that he could still see, as everything seemed to appear right before his eyes, and the last thing he would want to be labeled as was crazy.

Lunch arrived, and he could smell it and see the dish the nurse was bringing to him. The nurse had a semblance to an alien, with her big horn and misshapen eye that kept staring at him unblinkingly. There were long silver nails she had too, and when he looked closer, they were surgical instruments that looked ready to slice open his body.

"Can you not stare at me miss? I'm trying to eat, and you look funny, not to offend you or anything. Maybe you need surgery. But I'm sure your fingers can do all the work."

But she was gone, and she did not respond.

When he opened his tray, while the smell did register to him as cheeseburger, and when he touched it it felt like one too, but his food looked so strange. He thought it came right out of a homework sheet straight from geometry, with these colorful cubes and triangles etched in pastels, feeling like he was inside a painting or an art project, and he shouted to the staff that peeked in his room, "What is this crap? Why are you feeding me shapes? What's going on? I can still see, but I'm seeing you people putting me in some hipster photography or somethin'! What's going on with all of you? Why are all of you avoiding me? Where's Wave? Where's Storm? They're here, right? Where did they go?"

"You're blind, Jet," he said, calmly. "You have a rare disorder, called Anton-Babinski syndrome, ever since you were involved in that crash at the races. Your visual cortex got damaged in the crash, which is causing you to hallucinate these things, but you're still blind. You're not even looking at me. You're facing the wall. It's difficult for you to see that, but trust me, the fact of the matter is this: you're never going to race again. Wave and Storm don't know how to deal with your disorder, so they left you. And we don't even know what to do with you Jet. There's almost virtually nothing we can do with people who have this disorder, as it's so rare…"

"But I can still see you! I'm not blind! What the hell are you talking about? You're right here, and there's all these shapes coming at me, and this wall is the same color as a dog that has mud all over him, and you're saying I'm hallucinating everything when I can see everything right here? I'm not crazy or some kind of a lunatic! I'm going back to racing, and there's nothing you can stop me!" He turned to leave his doctor and slam the door, until he felt his face and body smashing into something solid. He saw a door that beheld the morning sunlight, but when he touched around it, it all felt too much like a wall, and he kept trying to get out of the dark muddy room until his doctor directed him to a part of the wall that absorbed him and into another realm, where he saw all these men with the same tactile face, while these cubes and cones and spheres were noticed by him, and he thought he could see the areas and perimeters and radiuses of these things too.

This didn't seem to be reality. This world was too deceptive to him, and seeing all these men with masks on their faces, it was surreal and something he thought he would only see in strange paintings and murals. He thought he was living in some kind of dream world, some paintings someone created for him to live in. He was nothing but living art, and he felt alive, even if his doctors said his wrist would still hurt for a while, and even if these doctors thought this reality he was living in was a lie.

No, this was all a reality. He wasn't blind. Just the world has gone completely mad.

He left the doctor's office, and even if he tripped over things and ran into these men, even if they sounded like women, he knew they were wrong.

A week passed since then. He knew he was sitting in a chair, a sphere, as he watched all these freaks of nature pass by him. The world was too bright for him, so he wore sunglasses, but his eyes still hurt. But he still wore them, so people could remember who he was, or what remained.

He wasn't allowed to go back into racing. He never heard Wave or Storm again when he tried to apply back. He figured maybe they did leave him, but not because he was considered "blind". They probably found a better racer, one who wasn't forbidden to race because of a reason he couldn't understand. "Forget 'em," they heard him say. "They only cared about how much cash I made in those races anyways. I already told all of you, I'm not blind and never will be! This is a great mistake all of you are making!"

He collided with the wall again as he said this.

He was a very influential racer, back in Indianapolis. Some of the announcers would affectionately call him the "Speeding Jet" as he was about to go in his car and win that race. He won many cups, sponsors, and had many fans, but they no longer supported him as they saw how terrible his condition became. When they saw on TV of him claiming he wasn't blind but yet ran into a wall…it was too heart-wrenching for them to respond, and he never got anything in the mail from his fans. "Forget 'em!" he said again. "Do they believe I'm blind too? Forget 'em!"

And when all these people gazed at him laughing at them for no apparent reason, spilling orange soda on himself and with his dark glasses on, they really thought he was insane, and some didn't say anything as they pitied this poor creature. "He's probably retarded and blind," he heard a lady say, and he gave her the finger. In the wrong direction.

His home was in complete disarray in reality, but sometimes he saw it a little differently each day, with different colored wallpaper or different furniture, but everyday he stumbled and tripped, and talked to people he thought he saw, but never talked to him back. "Why the hell would you go in my house and just stare at me like that?" he said to this apparition of Wave, and he attempted to chase her away, but he suddenly saw blue sine waves coming towards him as his body tumbled and he felt his leg breaking again, the sudden jolt of pain bringing him back to the days when he was in the hospital again.

He sat at the bottom, trying to get back up with all of his strength, when he saw his leg in a mass of blood, completely torn off his body, and he screamed the scream that he could memorize when he was in that crash, the only thing he could really remember that was real.

Doctors telling him he was blind again. Anton's syndrome. He _needed help _getting around the house and someone to assist him. "I'm not 80 years old! I don't _need _your help! I'm not sick and you damn well know that! I never crashed on that day! I don't know what the hell all of you are talking about! Fuck you, doctor! Fuck you, nurse! And fuck you, Wave, you probably started all of this! Fuuuuucck you!"

Wave wasn't there, and the doctors were completely confounded as he ran into walls multiple times, cursing and rambling and feeling his way to the door.

So he continued to laugh as the orange soda drenched his body, telling everyone on the street that they were "weirdoes and they can come kiss my ass". He was completely in disarray, long greasy green feathers almost gray, dirty racing uniforms from his glory days, smears of food on his face and his skin looking dirty and bloodied from his falls, while his leg was casted and he could barely get around on his stilts. He also knew he pissed himself a lot, but he could never find "the goddamn bathroom" and he reeked horribly. But even if he was nothing now but some wretched creature, something that wasn't him anymore, something that still held onto the past but secretly knew that he was no longer the big-time racecar driver named Jet Hawk, but…this man he barely knew anymore, but he denied it. But he still truly believed he wasn't blind. He could still see the world in all of its madness, its sudden transformation that happened the night he screamed bloody murder.

He thought for a while as he attempted to shave, not realizing his face streaming red small rivers of blood, that maybe this world was produced from his head, as if he was the one who became mad and decided to live his life among his little creations and dreams. Was that what he truly was? A lunatic who needed to be locked up as somehow he became so traumatized from the world that his creations came to life?

But as his face bled and he managed to find a towel that wiped it all off, seeing nothing but many brown lines of hairs from his chin, he laughed and thought he was just as insane to make up that assumption.

He could hear the TV playing an episode of Seinfeld he watched before, but he didn't remember the cast looking like amorphous blobs with the colors hurting and blurring in his eyes. He wore his glasses again, but the colors still bled into his vision, their colors seeping from the TV. He looked at them, seeing that they were now but a blue translucent mass of rectangles, and he launched them into the TV, screaming, "Useless pieces of shit!"

The glasses _clunked _against the TV, as the audience seemed to howl at his sudden display of frustration.

A pair of shadowy hands picked up the glasses, seeing that the hands belonged to a shadowy man with no face, except his eyes were clear to him, but he couldn't remember their color. He might as well have his eyes completely black, or they were a very dark brown like black, he couldn't consider it no matter how hard he tried or how much he was paid.

"Your name is Jet, is that right?" his shady voice spoke, sounding like silk to his ears. "Jet Hawk. One of the greatest racers ever known. Would've continued his career if only he wasn't considered seriously ill…"

"The hell are you?" he screeched, about to throw his open bottle of orange soda that already saturated his body and sleeves. "What do you want? I have nothing here for you! I'll call the cops if you don't get the hell out right now!"


End file.
